Fox, Outfoxed (A Cautionary Tale of Underestimation)
by lafillesauvage
Summary: Benito Sforza had been nothing but trouble since day one, causing a headache for everyone involved in his capture and subsequent rescue. Micheletto, duty-bound to protect his master (even from his own desire), and battling through the haze of his own enraged jealousy, charges himself with the task of resolving the disastrous situation once and for all. SLASH. AU as of 2x09.


**Summary:** Based on events from 2x08. Benito Sforza had been nothing but trouble since day one, causing a headache for everyone involved in his capture and subsequent rescue. Micheletto, duty-bound to protect his master (even from his own desire), charges himself with the task of resolving the disastrous situation once and for all. Yet, in the hazy fog of his own enraged jealousy, he must be careful not to allow his personal feelings for his master to prevent him from realising the misleading nature of hindsight and perspective...

**Warnings:** Slash, Dubious Consent, Character Death, Voyeurism, AU from 2x08.

A/N: To comply with 's posting guidelines, the version posted here is missing a scene that involves dubious consent and explicit sex. So if you would like to read the whole, unedited version, please visit my LJ or Tumblr (lafillesauvage).

No copyright infringement is intended.

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Fox, Outfoxed (A Cautionary Tale of Underestimation)

"_What was it the Spaniard said? I fight men, not boys."_

His master's words echoed in Micheletto's head as he skulked through the sparse woodland where the Siege of Forli had met its end. He stepped over the ruins of the Papal camp, kicking fallen branches, fallen bodies to the side. He did not pause to look at them as he passed, keeping his eyes fixed firmly ahead. They were of no concern to him; his only focus was the boy.

Yes, Micheletto knew all too well that Benito Sforza was a boy; his master had made that quite clear. Though the distinction did not carry the same significance for him as it did for the cardinal. After all, he had killed boys before, boys who were (in the eyes of God, at least) much more innocent, much more worthy of life…

Micheletto kicked angrily at a discarded goblet on the ground, delighting as his right boot collided with the emblazoned crest of the Papal Forces. If only they had fulfilled their duty, there would be no need for Micheletto to be here now, cleaning up their disastrous mess. The Sforzas, both mother and son, would have been long dead, and his master would never have-

Micheletto sighed, pausing to collect himself before moving on. Rationally he knew that it had been to his master's advantage that the Army had not succeeded. He knew his master had wanted Juan to fail from the start, had wanted him to founder, to disappoint their Holy Father. But he also knew that it was because of all of that, because of those self-serving machinations, that Benito Sforza had somehow managed to survive.

Of course, the cardinal was never to have known that that would be the unfortunate consequence of his actions. Yet the fact remained that Sforza, for one reason or another, had been allowed to live for far too long, and Micheletto was all too aware of his own guilt in the matter. Perhaps that was why he was so determined now, so focussed on doing what he should have done when he had had the chance. The _first_ chance. That night in the cell. They had, after all, been quite alone; no one would have even heard the boy scream before Micheletto's blade slashed across his voice-box and ended his pathetic life…

The sound of horses' hooves in the distance made him halt in his tracks, and he moved to shield himself behind a tree so as not to be seen. He listened, waiting for the party to pass, reminding himself of the need for stealth as he set off again. He could not let his rage block out his senses, not in this mission, not when it was so personal.

Sforza had to be put down. Not because it would save Juan's worthless neck; Micheletto would just as willingly kill the coward himself if he had the chance. And it was not because he thought the boy would actually be of any help in a retaliation attack; he was far too weak for that and probably too afraid of battle after his recent capture. It was not even because of who the boy's mother was, despite what Micheletto might have said that night in the cell.

Caterina Sforza was a whore, that remained a fact. But that was of no consequence to Micheletto. He had met plenty of whores and he knew that his master had slept with just as many. But they were of no real importance, and Micheletto knew that his master did not care for them.

But Sforza…

Micheletto could not understand his master's decision. How could the cardinal refuse to fight the boy, refuse to kill him, when he had made no other such efforts to preserve his innocence? It seemed a glaring contradiction to Micheletto: if the boy was old enough for the pleasure, he was old enough for the pain, and vice versa. Micheletto himself had been experienced in both long before he had ever reached Sforza's age.

The sound of laughter caused Micheletto to pause once more. He was almost at the very edge of the woods, at the point where he and his master had let the boy go the previous day. Crouching in the shadowed undergrowth, he pulled his dagger from his belt, and waited.

The Sforzas were predictable, and far too proud for their own good. Micheletto had known they would celebrate the boy's return in an openly lavish way, and he had not been mistaken. He saw a hunting party gathering by the fortress gates and instantly spotted the boy in the centre, his arm in a sling, the definition of easy prey. It was a sight that brought a smile to Micheletto's usually-stoic face. This was to be a kill he would relish for a long time.

Stabbing instinctively at a worm as it slithered past his feet, Micheletto wondered on how his master might react to the news of the boy's death. For, unlike so many of his assassinations, the murder of Benito Sforza had not been ordered by the cardinal. On this occasion, Micheletto was acting alone. His master knew nothing of his return to Forli, not of his intentions here. And, as he twisted the pointed tip of his blade deeper into the worm's body, Micheletto surmised that it would be better that way.

The cardinal would surely react badly to the boy's death, of that Micheletto was certain. Though it would not be because of honour or morality or any of the other things his master might pretend to defend. No matter how old the boy was, in all the time that Micheletto had known the cardinal, he could not recall him ever allowing someone so important, someone so potentially dangerous to the House of Borgia to live.

So, this was clearly not about age or innocence or the protection thereof. But it could not just be about lust, either. If it had been, his master would have allowed Micheletto to drown the boy in the river the next morning once he was no longer needed.

Micheletto cleaned his blade of worm entrails and pressed the tip to his left index finger, idly twirling the dagger with his right hand as he looked out across the field. At Sforza. To Micheletto's mind, there was only one explanation for why the cardinal would be so foolish, so blind: there must have been something about this boy that his master coveted. Something that made him lose all sense of prudence. Something he couldn't find anywhere else, in any_one_ else.

Frowning, Micheletto studied the boy from a distance, trying to figure out what that might be, but it was to no avail. Micheletto saw nothing of any worth, and the longer he stared, the harder it became to keep a hold of his anger, which would have him storm across the field to murder the boy in front of the entire crowd.

But he would not do that. The boy might have made his master lose control of himself, but he would not do the same to Micheletto. He would wait, patiently, for the right opportunity to arise. And until that came, he would replay the events of the last few days in his mind, and see if there was anything to be found in his memory that could explain what had taken place…

The first time they had seen him, curled up on the floor of that cell, Sforza looked like a pitiful dog, waiting to be put down. When the boy had raised his head, Micheletto had to admit he felt intrigued, but that faint spark of interest was vastly overpowered by revulsion. The boy was bruised and beaten, covered in dirt and blood and who knew what else. Micheletto had not known who he was, but he had felt his master tense at his side. Only slightly, minutely even, but Micheletto _knew_ his master, knew his traits. He realised he recognised the boy, even before he professed to doing so.

Looking back now, Micheletto wondered whether there had not been something else mingled in with that recognition. Disgust, too, no doubt. Though perhaps not for the same reason as Micheletto. Perhaps the cardinal was more disgusted with the perpetrator of this, with whoever did not share his belief in the honourable doctrine of de Caballos. Perhaps it was pity. Though Micheletto would never have thought his master capable of experiencing that.

And yet, the minute waver in his voice as he asked, _'what is he doing here?'_ now seemed a glaring indication to Micheletto that his master did, indeed, pity this boy. Micheletto had not realised it at the time, mistaking it for the same disgust that he, himself, felt at the sight of him, but he understood now just how ignorant an assumption that had been. And how much it had cost him.

Even as the cardinal turned away from the cell, Micheletto saw now that it might not have been out of revulsion at all, as he had first thought, but out of anger. It was almost as though he hoped that by turning away, by not looking directly at the boy, he would be able to rein in his emotions, to prevent the kind of outburst Micheletto knew him to be capable of. His breathy tone of barely restrained anger as he asked if it was Juan who was to blame seemed proof enough of this.

Micheletto wished he had realised sooner. Though what difference it would have made to subsequent events, he did not know. He flinched as the dagger point cut his finger, his grip having become too tight in frustration, and the pain brought him briefly out of his reverie to notice that the hunting party had gone into the woods on the far right. He sucked the blood from his finger to help it clot. It wouldn't be long now.

Switching hands, he fingered the dagger as he thought back on the night in the cell. As much as he wished he had killed the boy then, he knew that it never would have been possible. Of course, he could have done it. It would have been simple. He had killed much more difficult prey in his time. But he never would have gotten away with it, even after having killed the Conquistador standing guard. His master would have known the truth, and that would have ruined everything. After all, his master was the one person Micheletto would not betray. He would defend him to the end, even if it meant killing the boy he seemed to care so much about.

No, Micheletto did not have reason enough to kill the boy that night. But he did now.

Micheletto had wondered why they hadn't gotten rid of the boy the moment they passed the city walls. The Holy Father knew the truth, the foolish Spaniard was dead, Sforza would have been the last loose end to tie up in this terrible situation. He had heard the way his master scoffed at the offer of peace, and thought that it would not be long before he heard the order. And so he waited. Waited the three hours that they rode before nightfall, waited silently for a cue, for a gesture, for anything. He waited until they pulled up to rest for the night, hoping that his master would give him the order while the boy went to relieve himself in the bushes.

But it had never come.

And soon after they had set up their sleeping arrangements, the cardinal next to the boy, Micheletto a few feet away, he understood why.

Micheletto never truly slept. It was, after all, his duty to guard his master, and to do that he never allowed himself to sleep too deeply lest they fall victim to a surprise attack. That night had been no exception. Although it had been too dark in the woods to see anything more than the shadowy outlines of trees and of the bodies of his travelling companions, it was clear enough for Micheletto to hear everything. The crickets in the undergrowth, the owls hooting from the trees and, when it started, he heard _them_, their whispers echoing loudly around the clearing as if they had been shouting at the top of their lungs.

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Once it was over, the two of them lay there for a while, panting, before his master got up to relieve himself down by the river. When he returned, he lay down once more next to the boy, and whispered, 'If you tell anyone of this, Sforza, you'll wish my brother had killed you when he had the chance.'

Micheletto smirked as he recalled that line, and how he had thought it meant they would be ridding themselves of the boy the next morning. He turned now to look back towards the woods where he had offered to drown the boy, but of course it was too far away to see from his current position. Peering instead through the gap in the branches to his right, Micheletto saw the hunting party approaching, and made a mental note of how the strongest of the men rode in front, quite far from the boy, who was not yet in view.

As the last of the frontrunners rode past, Micheletto emerged from the undergrowth and headed back towards the spot where he had tethered his own horse, to a tree branch by the hillside stream, where the party would innocently assume a rider had left the horse while he went to relieve himself.

As he approached, he took a moment to look down at the stream, ruefully wishing he had the time and the seclusion to drown the boy, to teach him for mocking him the previous morning. Then he would find out for himself if drowning really was like dreaming.

But alas, there was not the time for that. Micheletto untethered his horse and moved to hide amidst the shrubbery. He watched as the rest of the hunting party rode past, Sforza riding off to the side closest to where Micheletto lay in wait, concealed by the bushes. The boy pulled up as he saw the seemingly abandoned horse, calling to his fellow riders to ask who was missing, but they called back to him to leave it and keep riding with them.

The boy should have listened. One by one they rode past yet he remained, and Micheletto saw his opportunity at last. He weaved through the bushes until he was standing beside the boy's horse, and when he knew for certain they would not be overheard, he stabbed the beast in the hind-leg, causing it to rear up and dismount its rider before galloping back towards the castle in fear. Micheletto did not pay it any heed, however, and instead concentrated on hauling the fallen Sforza to his feet, pulling him against his chest and clamping his left hand across his mouth.

'I warned you, boy, it was reason enough to kill you when it was just your mother who was the whore.' He spoke with his mouth pressed against Sforza's ear, delighting in the way the boy thrashed and tried to scream for help, but just as two nights before, it was to no avail. Micheletto held on tightly enough that no sound escaped.

'Sh sh sh,' he purred, gently pressing his lips to the boy's neck, just below his ear, directly against one of the angry purple bruises that his master had left during their encounter two nights prior. Micheletto chuckled darkly as the boy tensed in Micheletto's arms, and he took advantage of this momentary paralysis to move his right hand to the crown of the boy's head and shifted his left hand to rest against the boy's right shoulder.

'_Good boy.'_

And with his master's words coming out of his mouth, Micheletto twisted his hands sharply in opposing directions, relishing the cracking sound that Sforza's neck made as it snapped, and the gentle thud that his lifeless body made as it hit the ground, at last coming to rest in the dirt where it belonged.

Micheletto quickly glanced around to ensure that there had been no witnesses, yet instead of fleeing the scene immediately as his trained instincts told him to, he waited for a few moments, taking the time to admire his work. This was not something he typically allowed himself to do, for the danger of being caught increased incrementally with each passing second, but this had not been a typical kill, after all. In fact, Micheletto could not recall a time when he had taken such personal satisfaction from an assassination, except perhaps in the murder of his own father. As his gaze fell on the bite marks that ran the length and breadth of the boy's pale neck, though, Micheletto decided that this had certainly been the more gratifying of the two.

When his sense of self-preservation finally warned him that he could delay it no longer, Micheletto returned to his horse, which had been grazing peacefully a few feet away, unaware of his owner's gruesome actions or the attack upon his equine kin. Patting the horse on its flank, Micheletto grabbed hold of the reins and jumped onto its back, steering it round in the direction of Rome. With adrenaline still coursing through his veins, he rode back to the Holy City at top speed, hoping that he would not need to stop and rest overnight and thus make it back to his master by first light.

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After an uncomfortable return journey, in which he had only made the briefest of stops to relieve himself throughout the night, Micheletto arrived in Rome just as dawn was breaking on the horizon.

He returned his steed to the stables, leaving it with an ample amount of hay and a replenished supply of water in gratitude for its services. He then made his way towards the Papal Palace, halting in his tracks as he spotted his master leaning against the edge of the grand fountain in the square.

Micheletto immediately felt on edge, for it was highly unusual for his master to be about at this time of day, and even more so for him to be in a public place without any kind of protection. Wiping his face of any trace of emotion, however, he steeled himself to walk over to him, noting that the cardinal did not look up as he approached, instead continuing to gaze into the water as it lapped against the sides and gently splashed at his hands.

'Your Eminence,' Micheletto said by way of greeting, respectfully inclining his head towards his master, who did not turn to face Micheletto, but instead stared down at the gleaming ruby of his cardinal's ring as he spoke.

'At last, Micheletto, you have returned!' he replied, a small smile playing on his lips which captivated Micheletto's attention, even as the cardinal went on. 'Where were you yesterday?' he asked, finally turning his head towards Micheletto, who then forced his eyes upwards to meet his master's. 'I was in need of your assistance.'

'I apologise, your Eminence. I had…other business to attend to.' Micheletto shifted his gaze away from his master's face, staring instead down at his own hands as they gripped the smooth stone rim of the fountain's edge, glad that he had decided not to slit the boy's throat, for the bloody evidence would have been all over his hands for his master to see.

'No matter.' The cardinal, too, turned back to face the fountain, trailing the fingers of his right hand through the water in an undefinable pattern. 'It was of no great importance.'

A silence followed in which Micheletto began to feel very uncomfortable. Yet, when the cardinal did finally speak again, it brought Micheletto no reprieve from his unease.

'You are no doubt wondering why I am awake so early,' he began, removing his fingers from the fountain and shaking them to dislodge the water droplets that clung to his olive skin. 'You see, I have heard some rumours, Micheletto, rumours that I could not allow myself to believe until I had spoken with you. And so, while you were away, it was impossible for me to rest.'

In the time that they had been standing there, the sun had risen slightly higher over the horizon, so that when the cardinal turned to glance sideways at Micheletto, he had to squint against the glare. Somehow though, even when they were partially closed, Micheletto still felt as though his master's eyes could see straight through him.

'The rumour is that Benito Sforza has been killed,' he said, not a trace of emotion in his tone nor on his face. It took all that Micheletto had to prevent himself from averting his gaze in a silent yet undeniable admittance of guilt.

'Your eminence?' Micheletto asked, his blood like ice in his veins, wondering how it was that news had reached Rome so quickly, unless he had been seen in the act.

'Yes, a hunting accident apparently. Fell off his horse as he was meant to be celebrating his triumphant homecoming.'

'How unfortunate.' Micheletto, like his master, put no emotion into his tone, his words echoing hollowly and causing the cardinal to push himself up from the fountain's edge to turn and face him properly.

After a few moments of silence, he leaned in close enough to whisper in Micheletto's ear, the proximity initially sending his heart racing, before three simple words paralysed it completely: 'I know, Micheletto.'

Micheletto felt numb. For what felt like an eternity, he could do nothing but stand there, unable to speak, unable to breathe, even as the cardinal eventually pulled back to pluck his hat from the fountain's edge and return it to his head.

'I know. Very unfortunate indeed.'

And as his master's previously emotionless face dissolved into a devious smirk, Micheletto realised that this has been the plan all along. His master had never cared about Sforza; he had only used the boy to achieve his own nefarious end. And Micheletto, and his feelings for his master, had been nothing more than chess pieces in this fatal game of Italian politics. The self-satisfied smirk on his master's face and the glimmer of mischievous delight dancing in his eyes were confirmation enough of that.

By the time Micheletto managed to regain control of his faculties once more, the cardinal was already making his way back towards the Papal Palace, leaving Micheletto to watch in reluctant awe as the ruby robes disappeared inside, no doubt on their way to deliver the news to his Holy Father. Micheletto continued to watch, even after the wispy edges of his shadow vanished from sight, trying to make sense of what had happened here.

As he finally turned away from the grand entrance, shifting his gaze to instead contemplate his own hazy reflection, staring unblinkingly up at him from the depths of the fountain water, Micheletto thought he understood.

Cardinal Borgia certainly did not fight boys.

But that was by no means a guarantee that they were safe from him.

FIN

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